


a reprieve

by honestground



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/M, Frottage, Happy Ending, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Frustration, Vaginal Fingering, Zelda/her hand, Zelda/her pillow, for both of them this time, pregame, this is not Mipha bashing btw I would NEVER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 14:56:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11534586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestground/pseuds/honestground
Summary: Link has never looked atherthe way he looked at Mipha.(or, Zelda learns a thing or two about jealousy and sexual frustration.)





	1. in which Zelda makes a discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an anonymous prompt on tumblr. Gonna try to cross-post more stuff here. Enjoy.

It’s past midnight, but Zelda is nowhere close to sleep. She’s wide awake and infuriated, and Link is looking at Mipha.

It’s the first time in several days that she finds herself in her own bed—several days of almost constant travel, with enough walking and climbing that Zelda had been exhausted by the time they had returned to the castle. By all means, sleep should have found her easily, and yet it was proving frustratingly elusive.

A survey—and a quiet desire to avoid her father—had taken herself and her appointed knight to the foothills of Death Mountain, and a run-in with a mob of Bokoblins and several Lynels had resulted in a nasty gash on Link’s arm. Zelda was far too enticed by the possibility of extending their trip, or at least taking the long route back, and she had all but insisted on visiting Zora’s Domain. 

She took it upon herself to run a quick diagnostic sweep of Vah Ruta while Mipha performed the healing. From her vantage point at the control terminal she could still see them, seated together on the platform of Ruta’s trunk. She was too far from them to hear, but close enough to see that Mipha was speaking, a web of silver-blue light shining from her open palm, bathing Link’s forearm in a warm glow.

Zelda remembers feeling a slight twinge of jealousy, then—how was it that the Zora Princess was able to harness _her_ power so easily?—but then Mipha had lowered her hand, and Link had flexed his arm a little, and then Mipha had said something— 

And Link had _looked_ at her. 

Really _looked_ at her. Not with his usual expression of vague indifference, no, but one of tenderness and understanding. He looked at her as though he was looking _into her_ , his eyes soft and open and honest, and Zelda had suddenly felt embarrassed, as though she was intruding on something very private, and had torn herself away. 

But the image had refused to leave her head. They had spent the night in Zora’s Domain, and Zelda had been baffled by the niggling irritation keeping her awake, attributing her sleeplessness to the waterbed and the constant glow of the luminous stones.

And yet, now, in the comfort of her own bed, she still tosses and turns, and Link is still looking at Mipha.

Zelda turns toward the window, eyes automatically seeking out her knight’s familiar silhouette. He usually spent her sleeping hours perched on her balcony, or meditating out on the walkway that leads to her study, but she had ordered him to take his rest in the guards’ quarters tonight. He had gone without protest, without so much as blinking, which had only proved to incense her further.

Noticing that the moon is at its apex, Zelda swings out of bed and pulls on her robe, striding out onto her balcony. If she must forego sleep tonight, she might as well use her time productively and send her devotions to the heavens. In truth, she would rather be reading over her research journals, but it has been several days since she last took the time to pray, and so she settles onto the stone and clasps her hands before her, closing her eyes.

 _Hylia, great Goddess, She who guards the voices of the spirit realm…_ Zelda begins, trying to open her mind, empty her thoughts, become still and ethereal and—

—and Link has never looked at _her_ the way he looked at Mipha, has he?

Immediately abandoning her venture, Zelda rises from the stones and moves back into her chambers with unnecessary haste. She heads to her basin and splashes cold water on her face, then begins to pace her bedroom, mind running over this new realization and trying not to panic.

The problem, she tells herself firmly, is _not_ that Link has never looked at her the way he looked at Mipha. The problem is that _nobody_ has looked at her the way Link looked at Mipha.

Zelda halts her pacing, and immediately strips off her robe and nightgown to study herself in the mirror. Truth be told, she’s never particularly bothered to worry over her appearance, beyond having her handmaidens keep her hair neat and clothing clean—but surely, she thinks, this must be pleasing to _someone_?

Blue-green eyes move over her body with the methodical gaze of a scientist, squinting a little in the moonlight. She’s loath to admit that her breasts are underwhelming, but they are decent-looking all the same, and her ribcage tapers down to a small-ish waist, which is admirable, isn’t it? Her legs are fairly muscular due to her penchant for exercise and the outdoors—and perhaps she’s a little wide in the hips, a little thick in the thigh, but some _enjoy_ that, don’t they?

She thinks, a little wildly, that _Link_ likes the outdoors—that perhaps _he_ might appreciate a girl with strong legs—and then she realizes that she’s circled back to him, and she hurriedly pulls her nightgown over her head again, as though he might somehow _know_ that she’s thinking about him whilst in a state of undress—

… and now she’s thinking about Link in a state of undress.

Zelda falls back into bed, gropes around until her hand closes on a pillow, and holds it to her face to muffle her frustrated wails. So improper! So unbecoming of a princess! So he knows a few tricks with an oversized skewer, so what?! _Pull yourself together!_

Mind racing, she rolls onto her side, hugging the pillow to her chest and drawing her legs up to wrap her entire body around it, and—

Oh.

 _Oh_.

She’s feverish and agitated, body thrumming with _something_ bordering irritation, but something about the friction of the pillow between her legs helps to alleviate it. Zelda experimentally rocks herself against it, surprised when a surge of adrenaline runs through her, from where the fabric rubs against the apex of her thighs to the tips of her toes.

Fascinated, Zelda does it again. And again, and again—until she has to roll onto her stomach and hike her nightgown up higher so that her skin has direct contact, feeling the tension leave her with every roll of her hips. Zelda sighs in relief, pressing her forehead against her mattress. The cool material is nice, certainly, but perhaps something warmer, something more solid…

With some hesitation, Zelda snakes her hand between her legs to assist, and _oh,_ that’s _better_. Firmer and more dexterous and altogether _more_. She explores the soft folds of skin blindly with her fingers, discovering an odd dampness and new sensations, unsure of what she’s looking for, precisely, until her fingers brush over _something_ and she knows she’s found it.

A little button, it seems, and Zelda runs the tips of her fingers over it, noting how something inside her seems to tighten as she does. She’s careful at first, caresses gentle and tentative, then bolder and rougher as she gets better acquainted with it. She feels warm all over, little jolts of pleasure making her breathing hitch and her thighs clench and tremble, a new, nicer tension settling low in her belly.

She rolls over onto her back again, spreading her legs and arching her spine, head thrown back and mouth falling open as she gasps. Her ministrations are messier now, less precise, less controlled—fingers desperate and frantic. Something primal within her tells her not to stop, her body and mind whispering _yes, yes, yes._

And then suddenly, for some terrible, unthinkable reason, Link’s face is in her head. He isn’t looking at her with his usual vacant expression or the way he had looked at Mipha, no— _oh, Goddess, no_ —he’s looking at her and he’s _smiling_ , his eyes soft and warm and _hungry_ , and the more she tries to erase the image the clearer it becomes, and soon she’s chasing it, imagining him here and watching and _wanting._

Breaths deep and ragged, Zelda releases a quiet, strangled cry, and in her head Link’s eyes have grown wider and he’s stopped smiling, now, his mouth falling open as he _licks his lips_ and his mouth— _his mouth—_

And then the image is gone, swept up by the rush of blood that races through her body from her brain to her center, and Zelda’s hips surge forward as she cries out with the force of it, rocking against her hand in a desperate grind as it ebbs and flows—and she breathes, “ _Link_.”

She comes back to herself a moment later, legs trembling and chest heaving. Something, deep down, tells her she should ashamed, but her brain feels slow, sluggish, body too relaxed and satisfied to care. She pulls the blankets over herself and almost immediately surrenders to sleep.

And outside on her balcony, cloaked in Sheikah armor and shrouded in darkness, Link finally allows himself to breathe.


	2. in which Link overhears something he shouldn't

The princess is upset, and Link suspects it's his fault, somehow.

He can't think what he must have done. Ever since she had apologised to him, things had been... better. Less strained between them. He had thought—perhaps against his better judgement—that maybe they could be friends. Or as close to friends a knight and his charge could be.

She'd been in relatively high spirits for most of their excursion—even after she'd been forced to hide while he dispatched the Bokoblins and Lynels whilst they were surveying Death Mountain. Perhaps she was privately annoyed that he had been injured, thus risking her safety? Impossible, he realises—the princess had made it very clear that she could take care of herself. And, conversely, she had practically jumped at the chance to travel to Zora's Domain and extend their trip.

He had only sensed the change in her mood later, after they departed the Domain to make their way back to the castle. She had stubbornly kept her back to him on the entire return journey, face stony and set in an uncharacteristic silence. By the time they’d reached the castle gates, he'd almost worked up the nerve to ask her what was wrong, but she had then immediately suggested that he spend the night in the guards' quarters—in such a tone that indicated that it wasn’t a suggestion at all.

Even as he’d nodded, acquiescing, he had burned with apprehension. The last time she had explicitly told him to leave her alone, she'd almost been killed by Yiga. So later, watching the moon rise across the sky, Link dons his Sheikah gear and slips out of the barracks.

As he scales the walls on the west side of the castle, he makes a mental blueprint of the structure he already knows so well. If he stays out of sight, she will never know that he disobeyed her orders. And if, Goddess forbid, an emergency were to arise and he had to come to her aid, she could hardly fault him. Swinging up onto her balcony, Link finds a corner where he knows the shadows will conceal him, and settles in for the night.

Barely ten minutes pass, and the door to her balcony swings open with unnecessary force. Link is instantly alert, frozen, still shrouded in darkness as the princess strides out into the moonlight. She's clearly agitated—moreso than when he last saw her earlier in the evening—and Link watches in silence as she sinks to her knees on the stone.

She clasps her hands and closes her eyes, angling her head towards the heavens. He's heard her in prayer enough times to know what might be running through her head: _Hylia, great Goddess, She who guards the voices of the spirit realm—_

Then she suddenly stands and flees back into her chambers.

... _what?_

She’s obviously very distressed—had she not been, Link is certain she would have noticed his presence. Frowning, he moves carefully up onto the rampart near her window for a better vantage point, focusing his hearing on the muted noises coming from within the room. Splashing—she’s probably at her basin—and then the unmistakable sounds of her pacing.

After several minutes, the pacing stops, making way to a rustle of fabric, and Link hazards a glance through her window and almost falls off the wall.

She's naked.

The Princess of Hyrule is _naked_. Completely bare in the dim light of her bedroom, staring at herself in her mirror with a scrutinising gaze. For a single, horrible moment, Link can’t seem to move, just drinking in the sight—the dip of her hipbones, the slope of her waist, her small pink nipples that harden in the cold air of her chambers, the generous curve of her behind...

Link clenches his eyes closed.

Despite his initial compulsion to throw himself from her balcony, he remains rooted to the spot. She’s close enough to the window now that she would notice if he repositioned himself, and then she would know that he had disobeyed her, and she’d know that he _saw._

But why would she regard her reflection with such judgement, Link wonders suddenly. The way she looked at herself was so critical, almost as if she was searching for flaws—and as far as Link is concerned, she has _none_. All golden hair and creamy, soft skin...

No. _No._ She is his charge and the Princess of Hyrule and his partner in destiny and he will not think about how soft she might feel under the rough callouses of his palms—

And that line of thinking abruptly ends when he hears the princess scream.

He’s back at the window immediately, automatically thinking the worst. The scream had been muffled—was she being gagged? Smothered, perhaps? But as his eyes scan the room, he realises that she’s still alone. And mercifully clothed again, lying on her back in bed with a pillow clutched over her face.

As he watches, she rolls over, taking the pillow with her and wrapping her legs around it. She must be crying, Link realises with a pang. Certainly, it looks like her body is rocking gently with sobs, or perhaps she simply finds the movements comforting.

But then the princess turns onto her stomach, straddling the pillow like she would the saddle of a horse, still rocking down against it, and that’s... odd. If he didn’t know better he’d think that she was—

Oh.

_Oh._

Link stands, frozen, once again finding himself unable to tear his eyes away. It’s as if his mind won’t let him fully comprehend what’s happening, watching the princess’ nightgown shift up higher and higher as she moves, but it isn’t until she gets her hand down between her legs that Link manages to remove himself from the window.

He leans against the wall, still out of sight, heart beating so hard it’s almost painful. He’s mortified, still unconvinced of what he’s just witnessed. Does she even know what she’s doing? Does she do it often—or _did_ she, before he came along? Is _this_ why she’s been so irritable for the past few days, and why she sent him off to sleep in the barracks?

Link drags a trembling hand over his face, fighting the urge to run it over the front of his leggings instead. He isn’t sure if he can actually hear her or if he’s just imagining it, now—her breath catching as she gasps, soft sighs and mewls spilling from her mouth.

Does she only touch herself like _that_ —with a pillow between her legs and her face pressed into the mattress? He imagines it would be cumbersome, limiting her movement and, Goddess, of course she would move—writhing and surging and arching up off the bed as she works at herself with her fingers.

He hears her strangled gasp from inside the room, and while he knows his hearing is sharp, he also knows that she’s _loud_. Of course she’s loud—she’s so _enthusiastic_ , so willing and happy to fill the silence between them, so of course she’d be vocal like _this_. Would she still be as regal and articulate, even as she got close? At what point would she be reduced to moans and whimpers, all eloquence gone?

Hating himself, chest so tight he can barely draw breath, Link raises his eyes to the window again.

And, Goddess, she’s on her back—she’s on her back with her nightgown hiked up over her hips and her legs spread, and Link can’t for the life of him look away. Her eyes are closed, her head thrown back, mouth open in wordless cry, and even now with his wicked mind wrapped in impure thoughts, he marvels at just how truly beautiful she is.  

He can almost _see_ how close she is, how her body is strung tight, tension coiled and ready for release as she angles her hips and grinds. She’s so needy, so _desperate_ , and he wonders how loud she’s going to be—and he wants to _know—_ he _wants—_

—and she arches up, her hips coming off the mattress as she cries out—

—and she says, “ _Link_.”

And Link can’t move. His body won’t let him, even though he knows he should move back into the shadows, even as the princess opens her eyes and sighs in relief. It’s only after he’s watched her pull the blankets over herself and settle down into sleep that he steps away from the window and finally allows himself to breathe.

He moves once again to where the moonlight won’t reach, sinking down onto the stones and, with trembling hands, he tugs down his leggings and spits into his palm. 

He wraps his hand around himself with an exultant groan, and when he closes his eyes he still sees her, over and over and over again, he _sees_ the line of her jaw, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her spine, his name spilling from her lips—

—and when he comes he whispers, “ _Zelda_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest thanks to [colacatinthehat](http://colacatinthehat.tumblr.com/) who [blessed me with art of this](http://colacatinthehat.tumblr.com/post/163072560301/a-modern-tragedy-in-3-parts-this-cryptic-as) because I will never stop crying about it.
> 
> Edit 2: Huge, huge, _huge_ thanks to [johnnyfourbutts](johnnyfourbutts.tumblr.com) for illustrating part one! Read it [HERE](https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1w41cPxW7VvfrcafADF4dARGWB-3OeBOs) (NSFW).
> 
> Also this is me saying I'm writing a part 3. It's coming.


	3. in which Link and Zelda come to an understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for the conclusion. Thanks for all the love <3

****It’s been eighteen days since their return from Zora’s Domain and Link can not for the life of him stop looking at the princess.

In all fairness, he has always looked at the princess. She’s a young woman of extraordinary grace and it would be impossible for him not to look. He’s long admired the softness of her skin, followed the curve of her eyelashes and the slight pout of her lips, maybe watched the way her chest rose and fell with each breath. Maybe.

But it’s different now. Eighteen days, and all iciness towards him has melted away, any sign of her previous annoyance vanished. She talks with him, laughs with him, tries to feed him frogs, shows him her research, teaches him about horticulture on day trips to Hyrule Field, and Link listens to her voice with fondness and basks in her smile—but then she’ll close her eyes and turn her head and breathe just a little too deep—

And he  _sees_ her. Pale skin in the moonlight, body arching and writhing, one hand between her legs. Hips coming off the bed, her head thrown back—soft sighs and gasps and—

_“Link.”_

He can’t stop looking. He can’t stop looking and seeing and  _knowing_. He can’t explain the twofold exhilaration and dread that  _knowing_  has brought him; he defied her orders, overheard her in the most private of moments—but she  _said his name_. That must mean something—he  _wants_ it to mean something.

He almost wishes she still hated him. He could deal with that. He knows how to have  _that_  conversation, but  _this_ …

This, he has no idea. 

But he can’t stop looking at her.

So when the princess informs him that her training requires she journey to the Spring of Courage, he thinks, surely, that Hylia must be testing him. He despairs a little at the thought of spending an entire night with the princess alone, but still he packs their gear, prepares their horses, and spends the ride over to Faron steeling his nerves, determined to keep his thoughts honourable.

Seeing her in her priestess garb is both a blessing and a curse. 

Link can’t take his eyes off her as she steps into the water. Dressed all in white, hair and ceremonial jewellery shining gold in the light of the dying sun, she’s positively radiant, and he watches in reverence as she cuts gracefully through the water. Once she’s submerged to the waist, she clasps her hands. She looks up at the stone face of the Goddess statue for a moment, then sighs and lowers her head.

She doesn’t move for several hours. It’s always strange to see at first. She’s motionless, barely breathing as she works to establish a connection with Hylia, so still that, once settled, she barely disturbs the water. Link observes for a moment, but eventually moves back to the fire. Watching for too long feels like he’s intruding on something very private.

The irony is not lost on him.

Link makes camp and begins preparing their supper, glad to be able to immerse himself in something, still listening for any signs of danger to ensure that she isn’t interrupted. It’s been a long while since he’s seen her like this—she hasn’t prayed by moonlight since the night they returned from the Domain, and she had been distracted, agitated and pacing, and then—

_Then—_

Link tries not to think about it.

He returns to the water’s edge as the night wears on, standing with his back to the princess and sword drawn lest she require aid. The moon is sitting high in the sky when he eventually hears her stir from her reverie, her arms falling to her sides with a quiet splash, heaving a long sigh.

It’s only once he hears her movement does Link eventually turn around, finding her wading back towards him. The moonlight reflecting off the spring gives her skin and hair an almost ethereal glow, and Link swallows back the sudden lump in his throat, sheathing the sword and extending his hand to assist her.

The touch of her fingers makes his breath catch.

She emerges from the water soaked almost to the ribcage, the fabric of her dress turned almost translucent and clinging to every dip and curve. Link is vividly aware of the slope of her narrow waist and the fullness of her hips, mesmerised when she gathers her skirt with her free hand and hikes it up to her thigh. 

Just that mere glimpse of bare skin makes his face and chest hot; while he’s long admired the strength of her legs, only recently has he imagined what it might feel like to have them wrapped around his neck.

Link turns his head. His hand feels unusually cold when she lets go.

She takes her dry clothes to a private alcove to change, leaving Link alone by the fire. He should be glad for the distance she put between them, giving him a moment to quell his sordid thoughts, but he can hear her breath shaking as she strips off wet fabric, and suddenly he’s picturing it,  _seeing_  her, like he does when he lies awake in bed back at the castle—burning with shame, biting his lip, one hand gripping the headboard and the other edging himself to oblivion—

He drags a hand over his face. It’s going to be a long night.

He’s regained composure by the time the princess reappears, dressed again in her travel clothes sans her belts and boots. She takes a moment to drape her dress over a low wall nearby before joining him, dropping down onto the bedroll he’s prepared for her and pushing her bare feet closer to the fire, gratefully accepting the serving of pumpkin stew he passes her.

He notices how she’s shivering, how she holds the bowl close to her chest, palms pressed tight around it in an attempt to leech as much heat as possible, and represses a wild urge to wrap her up in his arms. “Can I get you an elixir?”

“No, thank you.” She closes her eyes, bringing her face close to the bowl and inhaling contentedly. “Your cooking is much more palatable.”

Link squashes down the way his heart flutters at the compliment, settling down and starting on his own stew, inordinately grateful to have food to focus on. Food is tangible—this is a hunger he’s allowed to satiate. Goddess, let gluttony be his only sin tonight.

The princess sets her empty bowl aside just as Link finishes his second serving, watching him with an amused expression as he ladles himself a third.“You’re eating as if  _you_  were the one standing in freezing water for four hours,” she teases.

Link notes, quickly, how she isn’t shivering anymore, and shrugs. “It’s a warm night. I wouldn’t mind it.”

“Oh?” She raises her eyebrows. “Perhaps you should get in next time.” 

“With all due respect, Princess, I don’t think your dress would fit,” Link replies, and she laughs. 

They lapse into silence, but it’s a comfortable one. Link watches the princess as she looks up at the open sky, studying the stars with a soft smile on her face, and he thinks, slightly more at ease now that he’s well-fed, just how much he likes her like this.

Out here in the wild, combing through her hair with her fingers and wriggling her toes by the fire, she actually looks more at home than she does in the castle. Without the imposing, ever-demanding presence of her father, she carries herself differently. He’s almost able to forget that she’s royalty. Almost able to forget that he’s seen the way her nipples peak in the cold and how her body rolls up off the mattress—

“I’m sorry,” the princess says, pulling him from his unsavoury thoughts, “that you had to accompany me on yet another fruitless excursion.”

The sudden slump to her shoulders makes Link’s heart sink. She’s rarely this gloomy outside the castle. He watches her as she draws her arms around herself and shifts closer to the fire.

“I thought it would be different this time,” she says. “I thought since you’re Farore’s chosen—you’re the embodiment of courage, and I thought maybe having you here...” she trails off with a sigh. “I don’t know what I thought.”

Were he truly the embodiment of courage, he might move around the fire and take her hand. It’s oddly painful—thinking he has inadvertently let her down.

“I’m sorry, Princess,” he says quietly. “We can stay another night, if you’d like.”

She shakes her head minutely, staring dully into the fire. “We should get back. Better for my father to witness my failures than think I’m out here wasting time.” Her voice is reluctant, bitter. “Every moment I’m away from the castle just feels like a reprieve.”

Link stacks his now-empty bowl on top of hers and sets them aside. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks softly.

She shakes her head again, but she’s smiling a little. “No. Just having you here is...” she pauses a moment. “Just—thank you.” 

She gives him a warm smile that fills his whole chest. Then she looks to the fire again, rolling her shoulders a little as if trying to shrug the unpleasantness away. “Well,” she says, “progress or no, this trip will appease my father, at the very least, and time away from the castle is always nice.”

“We can visit the Spring of Power next,” Link suggests. “The journey to Akkala is not a short one, and the king cannot deny you if it benefits your training.”

She laughs a little and Link feels giddy. “Perhaps,” she says, “though to earn my small freedoms I must be less neglectful of my evening devotions when we’re back at the castle. It’s been weeks since I last set aside the time.”

"That isn’t true, Princess,” Link says lightly. “A stolen moment on your balcony still counts.” 

The princess freezes. For a moment she’s motionless, staring into the middle distance as her eyes dart back and forth, and Link is halfway to asking what’s wrong when she says, “How do you know about that?” 

Oh.

_Oh._

It would be a warm night even without the fire but Link’s blood immediately runs cold. He wants to lie—he  _has_  to lie—mind immediately running through excuses, ways to backtrack—but just like that night on her balcony he remains frozen, rooted to the spot, watching in dread as she stares into the fire and realisation dawns in her eyes.

“I sent you to the guards’ quarters that night,” the princess says. “I remember—I remember  _distinctly,_ becausethat was the night we returned from the Domain and I...” 

She trails off as all of the colour leaves her face.

The silence that follows is like no other. Time seems to slow, all of the warmth from the fire sucked away. Link’s throat has constricted, a tightness in his body all the way down to his toes. He’d think his heart had stopped were it not for the hot rush of blood in his ears. He’s cursing his stupidity—to think for just a moment he allowed himself to get lost in her smile and her laugh and  _forgot—_  

“Why?” the princess whispers. “Why were you— _why_?”

“You seemed upset,” Link answers quietly, any hope of feigning ignorance evaporated entirely. “I thought something might happen. I was—I just wanted you to be safe.” 

“You were on my balcony when I came out to pray,” she says. It isn’t a question.

Link nods numbly. 

“For how long were you  _there_?” she asks.

Link can’t speak, but his silence is enough. When the princess looks at him, he just  _knows_  it’s written all over his face, that the guilt and shame there is disproportionate to a mere act of insubordination. He knows that his silence speaks volumes and right now it says  _everything._

“Oh,  _Goddess,_ ” she says, and puts her face in her hands. 

The world around them seems to have fallen silent. For several moments, Link just listens to her heavy breaths as the weight of this revelation settles on him, just absorbing the fact that there is no coming back from this. He wants to sink into the ground. Every instinct is telling him to run and hide, but—

“Princess,” he tries, “I swear I didn’t—”

" _Don’t_ ,” she says, and though her face is covered her words are clear. “Don’t even  _try_ to pretend. The line has already been crossed, so do not insult my intelligence and just tell me plainly:  _how much did you hear_?” 

Link’s own heartbeat is almost deafening. His words are useless. She already  _knows. S_ he doesn’t need an admission—doesn’t need his confession, she doesn’t need to hear it, she doesn’t need to _—_

"You said my name,” he says weakly.

Princess Zelda buries her face in her arms and lets out a muffled scream.

Link can only watch her until she falls silent. Only in his worst nightmares had he imagined this moment, but actually being faced with the princess, curled in on herself in obvious anguish, is something else entirely. She's murmuring, Link observes, and when he shifts closer he realises that it’s a prayer in the old Gerudo language— _merciful Goddess please take me away, I will close my eyes and my heart and I will become a stone—_ and it makes his gut twist. 

“Princess, please don’t—it’s okay—”

“ _Okay?_ ” She laughs derisively, nearly hysterical. Her voice is high with panic and every word makes Link’s heart sink lower into his stomach. “You  _knew_. For  _weeks_  I’ve just been agonising and...  _repressing_ and—and pretending that everything is normal and you just let me blather on about flowers and frogs like I’m not some kind of...  _degenerate_? This whole time? Just—just pretending that you didn’t—that I didn’t...”

She moans plaintively into her arms and that’s... an accurate summary, really.

She’s quiet, then, and Link thinks, perhaps a little too optimistically, that the worst is over. She’s so unlike him, in that despite her anger, despite how upset or frustrated she might be, she never withdraws into silence. He knows this is how she works through things. They can move on from this. There are worse battles to face. 

And, quietly—impossibly—he feels as if a weight has lifted. He hates to think that she’s been torturing herself, but at least it was a shared misery. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, because there’s nothing else.  

The princess looks sideways at him, her hands now pushed into her hair, elbows on her knees. “Why?"

“Because—” Link exhales a heavy breath. “Because I disobeyed your orders and now you’re... suffering for it, and that’s worth an apology.”

She’s quiet again for a long moment. Then she lowers her hands, raising her head just enough that he can see her face. “How can you even bear to look at me?” she whispers miserably. “How are you not...” She struggles to find the word. “Disturbed? Repulsed?” 

Link frowns. He was guilt-ridden, consumed by the knowledge that he had seen and heard something he shouldn’t have, certainly, but  _repulsed_? 

And then he remembers how she had looked at herself in the mirror with such contempt—scrutiny in her eyes and judgement in her gaze. He had seen for himself that there were no flaws to hide, nothing to criticise, and tonight is no different. She was ethereal bathed in moonlight in the spring, and even now when she’s upset and a little dishevelled, she’s softly pink in the cheeks and her hair glows gold in the firelight, and she is still nothing short of breathtaking.

And she thinks that he’s  _repulsed_?

Goddess, he realises. She has no idea. 

“I could... never be repulsed by you,” he says quietly. 

She looks up at him properly. Staring, expression caught somewhere between apprehension and disbelief. As if she’s bracing herself. Link takes a moment. Gathers his thoughts. Summons his courage. 

“You—” He’s choosing his words carefully. “You seem to have some misconceptions surrounding yourself, but I—you need to know, Princess.” His throat is suddenly very dry. “Any man would be... honoured to know you think of him. Any man would dream to hear you say his name.” 

Her face floods with colour. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then:

“Any man?” she asks quietly. 

Link opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He swallows and nods.

She pauses a moment more. She draws her bottom lip between her teeth and it’s everything Link can do not to lean forward and— 

“And you?” the princess whispers. 

Link can’t look away. He’s looking into her wide, imploring eyes and he’s remembering—remembering her bare skin in the moonlight, the long line of her body arched off the bed, remembering every sleepless night spent wondering if she’s thinking of him, remembering every smile and every laugh he’s ever been graced.

“I—” he tries, but that’s as far as he gets. He doesn’t have the words to tell her, and he knows he shouldn’t anyway, so he just holds her gaze and hopes that, again, his silence will speak for him instead.

The princess stares at him. 

And then, with a desperate noise of long-repressed frustration—scrambling, wild, and a little unhinged—she drags him forward by the front of his tunic and kisses him on the mouth.

It’s little more than an angry, harsh press of lips, the angle awkward and a little clumsy from her haste and inexperience, but the moment still sends Link reeling. He’s disbelieving, unresponsive, just relishing in it for three whole seconds, but before his senses can return she makes a panicked noise and startles away, eyes wide.

“I’m so sorry.” She sounds horrified. “That was—presumptuous of me, I—I’m sorry—”

“No—wait,” Link says. His face and chest are hot. He reaches out to her, slightly frantic at the thought of her possibly getting away. “Wait—just—” 

They both move at the same time. 

Their lips meet again as his hands push into her hair, and both of them moan in relief. He’s tilting her head so they fit better, her hands moved from the front of his tunic to the back of his neck, drawing him in so close that he can feel her trembling. No fantasy of his could ever compare to the warmth of her, her flowery scent, the way her lips part under his and her breath catches in her throat when he pushes his tongue into her mouth.

He  _feels_  the vibrations of her moan against him and it makes something inside him crack. Forgetting propriety entirely, he snakes his arm around her lower back, pulls her up into his lap and she  _lets him_ , making a quiet, eager noise against his mouth and pushing her breasts against his chest. Link shudders at the contact, his hand at the base of her spine to keep her close, and when she rolls her hips down against him they both gasp and break apart. 

“Are you—” Link stutters, “is this—”

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, and puts her lips on his again. 

He’s clutching her to him as her hands cradle his jaw, moving up and over his ears to fist in his hair, angling his head back so she can kiss him harder. It’s so  _easy_ , the way her mouth fits to his, kissing him like they’ve been doing it for lifetimes, and Link finds himself whining, pushing up against her, body needing— _begging_ —to get closer.

They’re moving urgently against each other _,_  a heady friction building between them as she grinds her pelvis down against his. It’s becoming harder to kiss, harder to breathe, she feels so  _good_ , and when Link gets his hand up her shirt he almost whites out at the mere touch of bare skin.

“Goddess,” she mumbles against his mouth. “Just—just—” 

She pulls him backwards and they go sprawling onto her bedroll.

His hand is still trapped under her shirt, pressed warmly against her belly. He has one knee between her legs and she’s clinging to him and they find a rhythm again in no time at all. Link is blindly grinding into her hip, intoxicated by her, by skin and scent, her soft whimpers against his jaw, the way she arches up into it when his palm covers her breast.

He’s feverish, trembling as they move, consumed by thoughts of where he wants to put his mouth. She’s softer than he could ever have imagined, and he’s so focused on feeling every inch of skin he can reach that he almost misses it when the princess puts her lips against his ear and says, “Touch me.”

His movements falter. He can’t think, can’t see straight; he can barely breathe. “Where?”

She takes his hand from beneath her shirt, drags it down her body to where his knee is pressed between her legs, until he can  _feel_  the heat of her pulsing against his fingertips.

She whispers, “Here.” 

No fantasy could have conjured that voice: soft but insistent, thick with wanting, sending an immediate rush of blood to his groin. Link is shaking as he brings his hand to his mouth. She watches him as he takes the leather of his glove between his teeth and  _pulls_.

 _“_ Goddess— _please_ ,” the princess breathes, and Link drops his head, moaning softly against her neck, and slides his ungloved hand down the front of her pants.

The first brush of his fingertips makes her breath and hips stutter. Heart pounding, head clouded, Link closes his hand over her fully, just exploring, feeling, memorising. He feels where she’s wet, where she parts for him and trembles, but then he drags his fingers up along the seam of her body and she  _whines_. 

“There,” she gasps, “ _right there,”_ and arches up against him. 

He had  _dreamt_  she would writhe like this, with her breasts pressed to his chest and panting hotly against his neck. They’re moving again, Link’s hand trapped between them, rocking against her in a desperate grind, drinking in every moan, every clumsy, open-mouthed kiss, savouring the easy slide of her against his fingers as he ruts shamelessly against her thigh.

They’re still fully clothed. He’s kissed only her mouth, her neck, just caressed the soft skin of her belly and breast. In his mind he undresses her slowly, traces every inch of skin with his lips and tongue. He waits until she’s begging, teases her until she’s aching, and only then will he give in to her pleading and let the raptures of orgasm take her.

This is nothing like that. 

This is  _better._

They’re frantic and graceless, lost in the heat and friction of each other, her hands up the back of his tunic and nails digging into his skin.She’s on the edge about to fall and he knows this because he  _knows_  her—Goddess, he’s  _seen_  it—he hears her climax riding on every breath, feels her helpless moan down to his bones and the roots of his teeth.

And he doesn’t plan to do it, but his hand slips further down her body, and she’s so slick that she parts easily at the pressure and suddenly his fingers are inside her and she’s wet and tight and impossibly hot and she’s keening and arching and clutching his wrist like a vice and—

She chokes, “ _Link_.”

And she  _comes_.  

Nothing could have prepared him for this. She’s pushing up, head thrown back, just like that night in her chambers, but it’s for  _him_  this time—knuckle-deep inside her and feeling her pulse around his fingers as she comes apart beneath him. She’s surging against the heel of his palm, crying out, coming longer and  _harder_  than she had that night, and it’s this knowledge that makes his abdomen clench, makes stars burst behind his closed eyes as he pushes against her and gasps.

“Zelda,” he says, “ _Zelda_ —” and his hips stutter against hers as he feels the heat of release race through his blood, the princess whimpering and holding him to her until his orgasm breaks. 

They melt into each other afterwards, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath. 

Link is boneless against her, recovering slowly, feeling the rise and fall of her chest beneath his head, her heartbeat against his cheek. For a moment he’s tense, apprehensive, afraid that he’s overstepped, but the worry evaporates when he looks up to find her head tilted sideways, watching him with a soft, sated smile.

“Was that the first time you’ve said my name?” she asks breathlessly, and Link laughs, dragging a hand over his face.

“No,” he tells her. “Not even close.” 

They exchange a long kiss before disentangling themselves and moving apart. Link steps away for a moment to clean himself up, lamenting the state of his trousers. But stains always wash out, and, he thinks, as he looks over at the princess—sitting up on her bedroll, cheeks rosy and hair tousled as she adjusts her clothing—it was entirely worth it. 

They wordlessly push their bedding together and lie down, shoulder-to-shoulder. Link thinks about holding her hand, thinks about asking her what this means for them, but before he can speak she says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything, Princess.”

“What were you and Mipha talking about?”

The question catches him off-guard, and it takes him a moment to remember. “She wants us to spend more time together,” he answers eventually, gut twisting guiltily at the recollection. It had not been an altogether pleasant conversation for him. “After everything is over with.” 

“I see,” the princess says, but Link can tell she doesn’t. He blows out a sigh. 

“She wants to marry me,” he says. 

She immediately tenses beside him, and he turns his head to find her staring straight ahead at the night sky, her face unreadable. Link doesn’t push or pry, waiting for her to gather her thoughts.

When she speaks, her voice is even, diplomatic. Guarded. “It is... impractical, certainly. Biologically, I mean. I am not sure you would ever be able to... procreate. But otherwise, I—” She falters here, but presses on neutrally. “Once we have sealed the Calamity, you will be free to court whomever you wish.”

Link is still looking at her. He can see the stars reflected in her eyes. He faces front again, absorbing the stillness of the night, the way the world around them seems to breathe. 

“What if I do not wish it?” he asks. 

He feels her turn to look at him, but she doesn’t speak. 

“I made an oath,” Link continues. “I pledged my life to you. Even when the world is free of the Calamity, I should like to... remain in your service, if you will have me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he feels her fingers intertwine with his own, their palms pressing together.

“Perhaps I can make some arrangements,” the princess says. 

Link turns his head. She’s smiling at him, her face rosy and close. There’s a warmth in his chest he can’t quite describe. It feels a little like triumph. A little like hope. 

He quickly closes the distance and kisses her. 

The kiss begins soft and slow but rapidly changes, moving into something deeper and hotter. Her hands are pulling at his tunic again, so Link shifts, moving atop her to kiss her more thoroughly. He doesn’t stop at her lips, dragging his mouth down her jaw to her ear, then down her neck. His hand finds the hem of her shirt and pushes it up, tracing small circles onto her skin with his thumb for a moment before he lowers his head. 

She squirms a little as he kisses down her abdomen. “What are you doing?” she asks, a little breathless. 

Link merely traverses lower, taking his time, until his lower lip finds the waistband of her trousers and he pauses. “Can I ask you something?”

She laughs a little. “Anything.”

“What made you say my name that night?” he asks, looking up at her. “What were you thinking about?” 

He can almost  _feel_  the heat of her blush. “Your mouth,” she says, barely a whisper.

Link tries not to grin. “Well then.” He presses a kiss against her hipbone, curling his fingers over her waistband. “If you would allow me, Princess...?” 

She flushes an even deeper shade of red, but she lifts her hips to allow Link to draw her trousers down her legs. He kisses every new inch of skin as it’s revealed to him, trailing his lips over her thighs, calves, ankles...

He’s working his way up again, one knee drawn over his shoulder, mouth moving along her inner thigh, when her breath hitches and she says, “Zelda.”

Link pauses, but the princess continues. “I think you should call me by my name,” she says. “Don’t you?” 

Link lifts his head to look at her. She’s watching him beneath lowered lashes, cheeks beautifully flushed, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. He hasn’t even touched her but she’s already quivering. He smiles and ducks his head again. He kisses her navel, pushes his nose into the juncture of skin where thigh meets hip, and breathes an exalted sigh when he feels her fingers weave into his hair. 

“Zelda,” he murmurs, and drags his mouth down. 


End file.
